Feeds on Blood
by onemoremistake
Summary: "Because in her head, she's wondering if that's the way she's going to become. Like Maria, roaming this house for all of eternity. Look at what he did to me." Violate drabble series.
1. Bides for her attention

**A/N:** Takes place after 1x10: Smoldering Children. Violet's thoughts after her death.

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><p><em>try to forget about him<em> / _you're all alone _

Kissing Cousins.

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><p>She never thought that being dead would make her so deliriously happy.<p>

Maybe it's the idea that she won't have to deal with the emotions of being alive anymore? She's been so numb lately that it's made her life, well, her _death_, easier. It's made the idea of Tate easier too. After he showed her the body, _her_ body, and let her cry every ounce of regret into the stitches of his shirt, they moved the corpse to an unmarked grave out back. The idea of rotting there in that crawlspace literally made her ill, the bile burning the back of her throat as she dry heaved and spit onto the floor.

He'd tried to comfort her afterwards. _Let's play cards_, he said, and when she asked him, _what now, now that I'm dead_, he said it'd be like this forever. This monotony of Murder House; just Tate and her and every other damned soul in this place.

She cries herself to sleep sometimes, when she thinks about it too much. Tate doesn't know; spoons her and snores in her ear while nuzzling at her hair. When they fuck, she stares at anything and everything except him. At least now she knows why her first time didn't hurt. She would have thought that maybe it was all of those lonely nights she fantasized of losing it, safe in her bed, her hand inside of her underwear moving raggedly against slick, sensitive skin… But no, apparently death allots you the right of not tearing and bleeding when you get your cherry popped by a kid who shot up your high school and died on your bedroom floor before you were even born.

And she thinks of when she was a child, when she dreamed of adventure and knights in shining armor. Not a house that eats you alive and a boy that wreaks of death.

One day Tate asks her, _Violet, are you sure you're okay with this?_ And because he had been willing to "die" with her, like Romeo and Juliet, she plasters on the prettiest smile she can. _Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be? Let's go play chess_.

They set up the board on her bedroom floor, right on the rug and lay out pillows to be comfortable. She doesn't understand the point of it. They're dead; how can they get comfortable? But she lies back against one anyways, says, _Check_, and the game starts. They converse about odd things, dancing their pawns around each other. About birds and music and imaginary friends they had when they were young.

And suddenly, the dead ghost of Maria joins them. Tate murmurs, _Go away_, and Maria does.

But now she can't concentrate. Falters with her moves and gets her queen killed. _Violet?_ Tate asks, looks at the way she's shivering. Because in her head, she's wondering if that's the way she's going to become. Like Maria, wondering this house for all of eternity. _Look at what he did to me._

_Violet?_ Tate asks her again, clears the distance between them and bends down to kiss her. She lets him; lets his tongue slip into her mouth and swipe against hers softly as he makes a sound somewhere between relief and worry. She wonders if he really loves her, or the way she makes him feel.

And when he touches her breast through the fabric of her dress, she stops thinking. Instead she helps him get their clothes off, lets him push into her messily and kiss her like she's the moon and he's the wolf biding for her attention. His thrusts are uneven, shallow and strangling on his pleasure. He hikes her knee up toward her shoulder and slides against the exact spot he knows drives her crazy, touches her in all the right places to get her to make a sound. But she's too busy staring at the floor. Their movements have made the rug scatter a little, and she's just now noticing the dark splotches on the wood.

Are they from Tate?

Are they from the boy that's moving inside of her, biting her neck like maybe if he marks her as his, she'll never leave? And somehow, she knows they are. She knows that he's fucking her in the exact spot he took his last breath, the exact spot she took all those pills and wrote her death sentence. And he touches her, kisses her, and she comes so blindingly hard she cries.

They lay there for a couple of minutes, him still inside of her as he kisses her face, murmuring how much he loves her while she lets silent tears slip onto the floor beneath her head. Her mother's due home from the hospital tomorrow, and she wonders how she'll look at her. Like a traitor; like a murderer.

And that's exactly what she is, what she's become.

_Look at what he did to me._


	2. Stupid little girl

_but it's a special death you saved_ / _for me, the brown-eyed daughter_

Mirah

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><p>Hayden isn't really someone he wants to fuck with.<p>

He calls her a whore, and still she advances on him. _Don't you want to feel good?_ she murmurs, climbing onto his lap. _I can make you feel good._

_I'm in love_, he says, shoves her off of him in disgust. _I'm __**in love**__._

_ That's funny_, Hayden says, her eyes shining in the dim lights of the basement. She looks awfully pretty like that, but she also looks like a harlot, and he wouldn't mind slitting her throat. Especially when she says, _I didn't know a murderer like you was capable of love._

He turns away from her, bites at the inside of his mouth. It usually comes down to this with her. She likes to play head games– likes to get inside of him and rustle around until he'd like to scream. But not today. Today he and Violet are supposed to go to the beach, maybe make out, maybe make love. It's their anniversary. Not much of a long one or anything, but still. He's heard girls like it when their boyfriends remember about trivial things like this, that it impresses them. All he wants to do is impress Violet.

_I love her_, he murmurs, as if to defy Hayden with words. _I __**love**__ her._

_Of course you do,_ Hayden says. _She's her mother's daughter. Everyone loves her over me, just like they love her mom over me too._

He sighs, glances at Hayden out of the corner of his eye and then shakes his head. She's crying, trying to get his attention and make him feel bad for her. He doesn't. He knows it's a ruse just like when she asks, _Can I get a hug?_ and then stabs people until they're dead.

_You're a cunt_, he ends up saying, laughs at her when she gasps in outrage and moves toward the stairs. _Go find someone else to make you feel pretty._

Violet's waiting for him by the door, when he finds her. She's staring at the outside world as if it's trivial, as if it's a challenge. Ever since he showed her the body, she's been more spacey than usual. He moves to brush her hair away from her shoulder, kiss her neck. It entices the slightest bit of a response from her, which makes him smile.

_Ready to go?_

She looks at him, wide eyes as if she's afraid, and for a moment he feels as if he's going to cry. She can't be afraid of him. She _can't_. But then she says, _What if I can't leave?_ and quells his insatiable need of her approval.

So he smiles, shakes his head. _We can go to places we're familiar with, if they're not too far away. You've been there before, you can be there again._

He shows her, how to blur the lines of being trapped and getting out. One minute they're on the front lawn, the next they're on the beach. The setting sun paints the sky in cotton candy pinks and bloody reds on the horizon, reflecting off the water in prisms that fascinate him. Violet grabs his hand, squeezes it. She hasn't been out of the house in a long time, and it must be exciting for her to be here, in a place so beautiful.

_Let's take a walk_, she whispers, and they do. There isn't anyone else on the beach– it's too cold. So he doesn't hesitate to sneak kisses, touch her in inappropriate places and laugh when she blushes at him.

They end up sitting on the edge of the water when the moon finally rises, talking about nothing and everything. He tells her about the time when he was ten, and he set the neighbor's cat on fire just out of curiosity of what it'd be like. She balks at that, blinks and stares up at the sky.

_I killed a bird once_, she finally says, and he winces. Birds are the only thing he can never bring himself to kill. They're too free. _It was just a sparrow that my dad found on the ground with a broken wing. I was five, and he let me hold it, and I accidentally squeezed it too tight, and well…_

He sighs, kisses her face and whispers, _It's okay, I love you,_ before she can get lost in herself and their night is gone.

But it doesn't matter anyways, because suddenly the Undead Breakfast Club has arrived. And he thought they were done with him. He doesn't remember. Don't they understand? He knows what he did, but he _doesn't remember._

They stalk up on Violet's left, startle her to the point she's cowering against him in trepidation. _So he killed you too?_ the pretty girl, the cheerleader asks. _We told you this would happen._

Violet doesn't say anything; she just stares at them, vacant. _We told you_, the metal guy insists, his blood everywhere so suddenly Violet screams. _But you didn't listen, you stupid little girl!_

He can't stand it anymore. He grabs Violet's hand, yanks her up and away. _We're leaving._

_Off to fuck your killer?_ the jock calls, smirking. _I bet he'll slit your throat when you come for him!_

And he blinks, and they're back at the house. Violet rips away from him, runs up the stairs and slams the door to her bedroom. He tries to follow, tries to knock, but he can't. Instead he ends up in the basement, sitting in the rocking chair, crying. _I don't remember,_ he whispers. _I don't remember, I don't remember. __**I don't remember**__._

_ Of course you don't._ He looks up. Hayden. _Why would you? You'd feel too guilty about it, right? Oh wait, I forgot, no, you wouldn't._

_Go away_, he says, but still, she's there, slipping around him, touching him, making his stomach coil until he feels as if he'll wretch.

_I could make you feel good,_ she whispers. _I'd let you strangle me afterwards… Wouldn't you like that?_ She moves to kiss him, but he turns away so that her lips land on his jaw, lingering.

And he hears the gasp before Hayden does, looks up to find Violet, her eyes watering in horror as she turns to run away. _Violet, wait!_

And Hayden laughs, cackles like a witch as he runs up the stairs after Violet, her image wavering until she's gone, and he's left alone in the kitchen, the holes in his chest ripping him in half as Hayden stands in the basement doorway, arms folded across her chest.

_Still want me to find someone else who makes me feel pretty?_


	3. Sail to the sound

_scratch my memory from your brain_ / _scratch her fucking eyes out_

Carina Round

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><p>Her cousin's name is Ellie. They look a lot alike, but Ellie's taller and her hair is painted black instead of blonde. Ellie's visiting from Boston, takes one look at her and sighs. <em>So you finally got laid, huh?<em>

She blushes, doesn't say a word as she shows Ellie up to her room. Tate's made himself scarce the last few days, after the whole incident with Hayden. She likes it that way– can't confront him when he's near.

Ellie plops down on her bed, pulls out a pack of cigarettes and offers her one. She grabs a lighter and inhales the smoke, the sweet drug which lolls her loneliness. _He cheat?_ Ellie asks, because she's an expert on that kind of thing. Ellie's been with every kind of guy there is, and her mother's always worrying the girl will get pregnant.

_Not really_, she sighs, blows rings through her nose and stares at the blood spatches on the floor near the rug. _I mean, another woman kissed him, but I don't think he wanted her to._

_That what he told you?_ Ellie asks, chewing on her uneven bottom lip. She's still got on the backpack she brought her things in– there's a hole in the bottom of it with the corner of a sweatshirt sticking out. _'Cause, let me tell you, that's what they all say. 'Oh, I didn't want her to.' And three weeks later, you find them fucking in your apartment._ Ellie's nineteen. Her mom kicked her out when she was seventeen after she'd been caught shoplifting for the sixth time. Ellie's independent.

_It's different with him_, she sighs, won't meet Ellie's eye. It has to be different with Tate. She died because of this boy. She's trapped with him in this house forever. _Look at what he did to me_, a voice whispers, disembodied, but she won't listen. The stitches that she has with Tate, even when they come undone, the two of them are still stuck together like glue.

It _has _to be different.

_Sweetie_, Ellie sighs, but she doesn't say anything else, just leaves the threat hanging in the air between the two of them.

_Why don't I give you a tour?_ she finally asks, can't stand Ellie's implied silence of how Tate wanted it. Wanted Hayden, that beautiful dead girl in her basement.

She takes Ellie through the house, tells her about its history, all of the little gory details Tate's let slip. When they reach the basement, Ellie stops a minute, her asher eyes just a bit frightened. She twists the knob on the door anyways, motions Ellie forward and they descend the stairs slowly. No one's in here though, and it's light outside, so she suspects all of the other ghosts have returned to their own world for the day.

_This where that girl got clawed?_ Ellie asks, because she'd called her right afterward to tell her that she felt like she was losing her mind– Ellie's the only one she can talk to about things like that.

_Yeah_, she says, shuffling her shoe-sole against the floor, like maybe there'll be remnants of the gore. Instead it's just dust, the longing of the particles calling to her from the foundation. She thinks about the body in the crawlspace, about the way she vomited what had to of been an imitation of food. The way Tate was willing to "die" with her like Romeo and Juliet.

_Look at what he did to me._ The voice isn't disembodied this time. She follows Ellie's gaze to Maria, the beautiful girl in a nurse's outfit spitting blood. _Look at what he did to me._

_Sick_, Ellie says, frowning. _Can she hurt us?_

_**She**__ won't._

_But others will hurt us, right?_ Ellie asks, picking up on the underline of her words. _Like that kid who shot up your school?_

She looks at Ellie sharp. _How did you know about that?_

Ellie shrugs, snickers just a little as Maria fades and disperses. _I like to use the internet, duh. Had to find out the dish on the prison they sent you to._

She dry swallows, moves to go back up the stairs but stops when she hears the rocking chair squeaking in the other room. Her heart aches to sail to the sound, but she shakes her head, tells Ellie to hurry up and stomps her way into the kitchen. They grab something to eat, but she just dully chews at it. Ellie suggests they go into the city and shop, but she's quick to cover with the excuse Ben doesn't want her out of the house when neither him nor Vivien are home.

_Okkaayyy_, Ellie sighs. _So then what do you want to do?_

She wants to go see Tate. She wants to say she's sorry and that she's lonely and her bed is cold at night without him sleeping beside her, but instead Ellie and her go into the living room and watch old reruns of _True Blood_ on television, because Ellie has an unnatural attraction to the guy that plays Eric. She doesn't though, and so she zones out, thinking about how much homework she would have if she ever does get up the courage to go back to school.

And then they're interrupted by Hayden. The woman strides in looking beautiful, as always. There to taunt the men away from the Harmon women. She watches her flutter across the floorboards, smile at Ellie. _Hi, I didn't know we had company?_

_Who are you?_ Ellie asks, eyes assessing. She can tell that Ellie's jealous– who wouldn't be.

_Oh_, Hayden says, as if she's so completely comfortable here that not introducing herself would be such a common mistake. _How rude of me. I'm Hayden, and you are?_

Ellie turns to her, blinks. _Hayden as in the whore your dad was fucking around with?_

_Excuse me!_ Hayden hisses, but Ellie's far past hearing it.

_She's dead, right?_ Ellie asks, smirks. _No way the good ol' doc would let the bitch anywhere near the house if she wasn't._

_Well aren't you perceptive?_ Hayden sneers. _Did Violet tell you about her predicament_–

_Enough!_ she yells, and by this point the ruckus has caused enough sound that Tate is there, her knight in shining armor as he storms through the door, sharp eyes and taught regret in his body, like a spring waiting to break.

_Get out of here, Hayden,_ he says, and the other woman leaves without further warning, like she's suddenly so afraid of him even though she was trying to fuck him the other night. And he turns, feels her watching, looks at her, looks at Ellie. _Sorry._

_Boyfriend?_ Ellie asks. She nods, doesn't to have to look at Ellie twice to know that she knows exactly who her 'boyfriend' is. _Goddamn, Violet. This place is really a fucking madhouse then, isn't it?_

_Pretty much,_ she whispers, and they turn to watch television again, only this time Tate is sitting on her right, kissing her face and holding her hand and whispering how much he loves her and how sorry he is.

Ellie just stares ahead, afraid, and she doesn't blame her.

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><p>When they find Ellie's body a block away a week later, blood leaking from her abdomen and her eyes scratched out, Tate is the one to tell her the news. She cries for an hour, and then she laughs, because at least Ellie isn't stuck here like her.<p>

_But others will hurt us, right?_


	4. Ten days late

_and they were nowhere_

Lights On

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><p>Ben is adamant that she goes to the grocery store with him.<p>

_Can't I just make you a list?_ she whispers, staring out the window helplessly. She's only been to the grocery store three times. She's familiar with it, but she isn't. It's a parallel and she hasn't asked Tate about how parallel's work. _It'd be easier…_

And she waits, watches as Ben shrugs on his coat, shakes his head. _No,_ he says, and she knew this would happen. _It'd be easier if you went with me._ And that's that.

The drive is terse. She doesn't blame him. She sent her mother to the hospital. She _lied_.

_Look at what he did to me._

_**Shut up.**_

The grocery store is small. It's right around the corner, and is run by a lady that looks like she's in her seventies. Ben steers clear of the front aisle, where housewives have stopped to gossip, instead leading her to start at the back. She grabs small things, mimics the idea of eating. Technically she doesn't _need_ to, but she can also still feel her stomach rumbling, even though she's dead.

When they enter the candy aisle, she stops a moment. Grabs the Sourpatch Kids– the big bag– off the shelves and tosses them into the cart. _Since when do you like theses?_ Ben asks, because usually she isn't one to go for the sugary things, instead opting for chocolate.

_I don't know,_ she lies. _They just sounded good._

They check out behind a girl she knows from school, who's buying tampons. She thinks about it a moment. Ten days late. She'll never have her period again. She'll never have babies. Suddenly she wants to cry. It isn't like she ever thought about having babies. Kids cry a lot and get snot everywhere. But she'd always taken it for granted. The opportunity was still there, when she was _alive_.

"Hi, Violet." She looks up. The girl buying the tampons is staring at her with amber eyes and a gapped smile. She waves, mumbles her own iridescent, _Hi_, and won't make eye contact. She doesn't know her name, but she knows the girl is in her Trig class.

"Everyone thought that you were sick," the girl is saying, retrieving her purchase from the acne-draped teen behind the counter. "You do look very pale… I hope you get better?"

_Thank you,_ she mumbles, watches the girl's heels as they clack across the linoleum on her way out.

Ben doesn't make a comment until they get to the car. _I thought you went back to school?_

_For a day,_ she lies, and then looks down. _I was just so sleepy on Friday, and I just… I felt sick._

Ben doesn't push her. He drives them home and she helps him unload the groceries, and he's gone, off to see her mother that she put in the hospital. She takes her time in putting the food away in its specified places. When she pulls out the Sourpatch Kids, Tate is suddenly beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her face.

_Did you get those for me?_ he asks, smiling into her hair. She nods, and he kisses her again– gets a hand under her chin and tilts her head back so he can slip his tongue into her mouth. _I've always thought about fucking you in the kitchen_, he whispers hotly, sucking a mark onto her collarbone she knows will fade before Ben ever sees. _Bend you over the counter and make you moan my name…_

_Tate,_ she sighs, moves to put the rest of the food away. He hops up onto the counter, starts eating the candy and _mmm_s appreciatively, licking the sugar off his fingers in a false bit of seduction. She thinks about her first time, how he went down on her right after she started "bleeding" and licked away her innocence, making that same _mmm_ of appreciation and tasting at the edges of his mouth after. She starts blushing irrationally, puts the milk in the fridge and turns to stare at him.

_I'm going to have to go back to school, eventually._ This gets his attention. He looks at her, his expression falling.

_Violet, no._

_How can my parents cover it up, Tate? Even if they somehow believe us, my body's been rotting for nearly a month. What about that officer? He'll think my dad was lying when he came to ask why I hadn't been at school._ Luckily, the court appeal hasn't come yet. And there wouldn't even be a need for one if she just goes back now. Doesn't make a fuss about it. _You could always come with me…?_

_Violet, no_. He says again, won't meet her eyes.

_You're familiar with it,_ she whispers, crossing her arms over her chest.

_Don't you think I've already tried?_ he asks, sighing. _Just to remember… But I__** can't**__. It's like the moment I step foot there, I'm back here, on the floor of your bedroom._

She swallows her pride, moves to fit herself in the crook between his legs and hold him as he nuzzles into her hair. _I have to, Tate._

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><p>But the next morning, when she's all prim and ready, just like the last time, he kisses her. <em>Stay with me?<em> And they fuck all day in her bedroom, his name slipping off the edge of her tongue like a cry for help while he tells her he loves her, bruises her with his fingerprints and cages her.

But it's such fucking sweet entrapment.


	5. Author's Note

**SPOILERS for 1x11.**

We interrupt your regularly scheduled Fanfic to bring you this important announcement:

_**I AM IN A GLASS CASE OF EMOTION!**_

The episode. The _fucking_ episode. I can't even... I will go down with this ship. I mean, it was just like, _Oh, by the way Tate, I love you, but y'know, you raped my mom, and now she's dead, and you're the darkness, and I can't be with you even after everything we've been through. GO AWAY!_ I get it, he's a psycho, but he's _your_ psycho! Tell him to come back!

If this is the end of Violate, I give up on life…

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><p>In other news, apparently next season there will be a whole new family. If Violet and Tate aren't in the house, and Constance isn't there for that matter, I will fucking cut a bitch… i.e. Murphy. They. Cannot. Go. Away.<p>

*le sigh* Okay, rant over. Just felt like this needed to be said. Back to the fic...


	6. The way his words hurt

**A/N:** Very quickly, I would like to say thank you to everyone who has left a review, or has kept reading. It means a lot, and just…thanks.

This snippet takes place during Ellie's stay at the Harmon's, leading up to her death.

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><p><em>you've got me on the outside lookin' in,<em>

A Day to Remember.

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><p>Ellie's a smart girl. She knows how much Violet likes this boy, Tate. She knows that her cousin's <em>in love<em>. It makes Ellie sick to her stomach.

She knows what Tate did. She knows he shot up that school; knows he got shot up himself by the man, and has been rotting in this house ever since. And no, she doesn't believe that she is crazy for accepting the fact there are ghosts here. When she was twelve, Ellie had a dream of her grandmother saying goodbye to her. The next day, her mom sat her down at the kitchen table and said, _Sweetie, Grammy is finally at peace now. She left us last night; she loved you, remember that._ It kind of changed Ellie's perspective on the afterlife.

Just the way Violet being dead does.

Of course she knows. Ellie's a smart girl, remember? Albeit, she did figured it out by eavesdropping. She'd been faking sleep, curled up on the other side of Violet's bed when Tate tiptoed through the door. He asked Violet if things were alright between them– said he was sorry and that he loved her and that she was all he had. And of course, because he said all of the right things, Violet forgave him.

Ellie was about to snort and break her cousin's and her cousin's psycho, dead boyfriend's moment of bliss, when Violet sneezed and Tate said, _Bless you._

Violet laughed, muttered, _No use for it when I'm dead,_ and the two ghostly lovers had snuck out of the room to do god knows what, leaving Ellie to start crying into the pillows.

It's been four days since she's known about Violet. She pretends that she doesn't, for the sake of her own sanity. And probably Ben's, and Vivien's, who have both already lost it anyways, but they're family, and Ellie is a guest, so she can't be rude and say, _Hey, Violet's dead by the way._

Right now she's trying to distract herself by taking a tour of all of the gruesome landmarks of the neighborhood. She's sitting next to an old lady who smells like rose water and mildew, the woman's hair up in mock curls with too many highlights for the ruddy color to be natural. Ellie crinkles her nose and scoots further away toward the edge of the vehicle, pulling her scarf over her face for protection.

The tour guide, monotonous most of the time, yet with an underlying excitement even though he's had to have done this for a million different tour groups, is busy blabbing about some murder of some guy that Ellie doesn't care about. There's a little boy in the back that has started to cry and Ellie remembers the wails she heard coming from the basement last night. She couldn't bring herself to move though, and Violet was sleeping softly next to her, and she would've felt bad for waking her dead cousin just to ask what was happening. She probably didn't even want to know anyways…

And suddenly they pull up in front of the source of the sounds. Ellie's eyes go wide, because last she remembered, they were ten blocks away. She pulls her hair off her neck, smooth out the panels of her skirt and clears her throat. Rose water lady stares at her in concern, but Ellie just twiddles her thumbs and resists the urge to tell the woman to fuck off. She's old after all, and Ellie respects old people for being able to make it through such a shitty world for so long.

"Murder House," the tour guide begins. "Such an infamous place."

Ellie listens with horrendous fascination. About the owners, the dead babies, the dead lovers, and the dead mothers and fathers and children. She holds her breath when they talk about Tate– Tate Langdon, the maimer and murderer of fifteen innocent people. He died on Violet's bedroom floor.

When all is said and done, Ellie walks back to the Harmon's house slowly. Her boots clomp against the ground and echo, bringing attention she's used to, but it feels odd now. Do they know where she's going? Back to a place so full of death.

She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and begins to smoke like it's oxygen. When she gets to the gates of the house, she stops, sighs and pushes them open and walks inside because Violet's dead and she doesn't need to keep the doors locked while the good doctor is away.

Nervous, Ellie finds her way into aforementioned good doctor's office. She sits on the patient's chair, smiles. _I'm here for some mental help,_ she mutters. _See, my cousin's dead, and she's dating a guy that's dead, and oh yeah, they're in a house that, for all intents and purposes, is __**dead**__, and he kills people, and she doesn't even seem to acknowledge this... What's your diagnosis, doc? Mentally unstable?_

She laughs to herself. Heard it all before. Clepto. Suicidal. Depressed. Bipolar. Addict. Whore. Trash. _Useless_. Words like that don't hurt her– or at least, she doesn't let them.

But Tate's words hurt her. One minute the doc's chair is bare, and the next it isn't, and he leers at her, and he says, _Snoop. Not mentally unstable. __**Snoop**__._

She startles, falls off of the chair she's in and hits her head. And that's the way his words hurt, because she's heard worse than _snoop_, but she's never fallen off a chair while having the verdict delivered. _Motherfucker!_ she curses, lays there a minute before moving into a crouching position. _What the fuck do you want, blondie?_

_Nothing_, Tate shrugs, suddenly oh so pleasant as cherry pie. _Just for you to stop worrying so much._

_What's that supposed to mean?_ she asks, holds her head high with false bravado as she stands. _I can worry all the fuck I want. It's my head; don't fucking try and tell me what to fucking do with it._

_I wasn't,_ Tate says, mock calm. _See, it's just that I've got this feeling that you're trying to convince Violet that I'm no good._

Ellie dry-swallows.

Truth is, she has been. When she thought that she and Violet were _alone_, sharing a cigarette and a piece of chocolate cake in her bedroom the night before, she made her move. Simply asked Violet just what the fuck she thought she was doing, screwing around with a murderer. And she saw the indecision in Violet's eyes, the _guilt_, and she played off of it. Reminded Violet of what a spit-fire she was, when they were children. The way she said she'd never let a boy get to her like this. And her cousin cried and got snot all over herself, hugged Ellie and got snot all over her too, and said she didn't even know sometimes, didn't even know how she could stop it.

_I don't know what you're talking about,_ Ellie says to Tate anyways, backs toward the door. _I think you're just trying to make trouble._

_Sure I am,_ Tate laughs. _After all, __**others will hurt you, right**__? _

Ellie runs all the way to Violet's room. She locks the door, and sinks down onto her hands and knees on the floor. Peels back the rug that Violet's always staring at and finds the blotted blood spots, eyes wide because she knew it, but _god fucking damn it_, this is just too fucking insane.

_She killed herself, y'know? Violet. I held her while she died._ Ellie looks up, finds Tate in the doorway, lock still latched into place as he strides over to her and bends down to her level. _I felt her heart stop beating, and she breathed her final breath against my mouth as I kissed her. I tried saving her, but apparently she wanted to die. She wanted to be with me forever. Like Romeo and Juliet._

_You're sick_, Ellie hisses, matching his gaze with a glare. _She just wanted to fucking get away from you, because you're a killer. Violet isn't. She's good, and sweet, and you __**ruined**__ that._

_Maybe_, Tate says, stutters out a breath, and then laughs. _But maybe you ruined it a little bit too, when you told her that love isn't real, when she was thirteen. That no one was gonna love her, because no one loves anyone but themselves. But__I __**fixed **that__. You haven't fixed her one bit._

_ Whatever_, Ellie says, turns toward the window and stares at the lawn below, wonders how many bodies are hidden there. _Just leave me alone._

_With pleasure_, Tate says, taking a step, but then he turns back. _I'm not against killing you, y'know? If you try to take her away from me._

_I know_, Ellie whispers, and when he's gone, she moves to curl herself against Violet's bed. Stares at the picture her cousin keeps on the nightstand– the two of them in Boston, hugging and flipping off the camera. She thinks about that Violet, the carefree one instead of this pretty little dead girl that can't think for herself.

* * *

><p>When Ellie dies, three days later, her last words are <em>Tell Violet she's still herself, in there somewhere<em>, but of course he won't, because Ellie's killer loves her cousin, like Romeo and Juliet, and he won't let a little truth like Ellie's come between them.

She dies with sigh on her lips, because at least she'll never be stuck in that house. But for Violet's sake, she wishes that maybe she could have been.

_Others will hurt you, right?_


	7. Author's Note 2

**Spoilers 1x12:**

We interrupt your regularly scheduled fanfic for this important bulletin:

What.

The Fuck.

Was that?

* * *

><p>I don't even know what my emotions are right now… And it seems we all must wait until August to find out what the fuck Murphy was thinking. Oh, and supposedly it's going to be an all new family next season? Ha. New family my ass. Look how that just turned out! You bring another new family into this and leave me hanging like <em>abfwajkkwheheb! Tate will wait forever! His baby killed the babysitter! Omg, wtf?<em> and I swear to the infinites, Murphy, I will fucking find you, and I will go helter-skelter on yo' ass.

With a fire poker.

I mean it.

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><p>Does anyone agree with me about this?<p>

* * *

><p>And now back to your regularly scheduled fic, as I feel like writing Violate once again and will hopefully update soon…<p> 


	8. It doesn't work right

**A/N:** Because I know a lot of spoilers for Violate in the series (hopefully they're all false, but Murphy is an asshat, so probably not) this story is going to turn a bit AU after this. And because I am feeling a little sappy, nostalgic, and like writing lemons, here's my portrayal of Violet and Tate's first time. As earlier stated, this is a _drabble_ series, so it doesn't follow any specific timeline and this doesn't interrupt the fic.

* * *

><p><em>would you be good enough to take me home?<em>

Frightened Rabbit.

* * *

><p><em>Are you sure about this?<em> He stares at her calmly, watches as she strips out of her shirt down to her bra. Strips out of her skirt down to her tights, and then untangles the nylons until they're slipping off her arched feet.

If he wasn't trying to control himself, he'd take her right there. Her pale skin in the moonlight, the soft contours of her waist and hips and thighs, make him so hard he has to grit his teeth against it. He thinks about her beneath him, moaning his name. The way she touched him through his jeans on Halloween and how he lied so they could wait, make their first time together perfect. He's watched her touching herself at night, safe in her bed under the covers. And even though she's dead, she flushes the shade of roses. Bites into her lip and never makes a sound, except a few helpless whimpers when she comes. He wants to make her let go and scream.

_Totally_, she says after a minute, answers his spoken question as she turns to smirk at him before she dives, a perfect splash into the crystal water in front of her. They're in the backyard of a neighbor. It's three in the morning, dead hour and they can travel anywhere they want even if it's not familiar. Her parents are off worrying about themselves and she's here with him, practically naked and his mouth feels dry as he strips down to his boxers, quickly plunging in after her to hide his obvious arousal.

The water is ice-cold. He shivers, swims over to her to trap her in his embrace and claim her mouth with his. _I love you_, he murmurs, quells her shaking with his hands rough against her skin.

She smiles at him, something malicious behind the gesture before she splashes him and swims away. He follows, eager to grab her, wrestle her under his grip and claim her under his mouth as he kisses her neck. She evades him though, swimming and diving and splashing like a child. Because in many ways, she still is. Will forever be. Sixteen for an eternity, wide-eyed and developing and so unbelievably innocent even though she's seen so much and been the victim more than anyone should ever be.

When the cold finally becomes too much for her– he could stand it an eternity, because it's not like they'll get hypothermia and _die_, but she doesn't know that yet– they swim over to the edge and he grabs one of the towels they brought, wraps it around her and kisses her mouth with an urgent passion as water droplets slide down her cheeks like tears the way they did when she died in his arms. Crying, safe, _loved_. Like Romeo and Juliet, she wanted to escape the pain and stay with him forever.

When she opens her mouth under his so he can slide his tongue in, the porch lights suddenly flicker on. "What's going on out there?" someone calls, and he breaks away from her, staring for a moment before they laugh, grab their clothes and rush over the fence into the street to run all the way back to the house.

They go inside through the basement door. It's even colder in here. She stares at the shadows, the spaces where the moonlight refuses to flow. He wonders what she's thinking, the way she shivers as something scurries around. More than likely it's Thaddeus, and when he whispers a small, _Go away_, under his breath, the noises stop.

He takes her upstairs, to her bedroom where he puts his old clothes back on and she changes into a sleepshirt with _Nirvana_ scribbled in bold across the front. He kisses her as they get under the covers, talk about everything and nothing until finally she falls asleep in his arms. If he could dream, he knows he would dream of her, but he doesn't know if he can anymore. Everything is so blurry, between Vivien eating brains and Nora losing hers.

Somehow, he drifts away, somewhere between the house and nowhere, and when he's back, it's the last hour before the sun rises. Six a.m. and Vivien is dead asleep, so he doesn't even bother to disguise himself as he opens Violet's bedroom door. But she isn't in her bed anymore. He goes looking for her, finds her staring at a box of cereal in the kitchen. _I'm not ever hungry anymore_, she whispers when he wraps his arms around her, kissing her neck through the veil of her hair. _Why aren't I ever hungry anymore, Tate? Why don't I go to school? Why don't I leave the house? Why do you want me to stay here so badly?_

He doesn't answer her, presses his lips into a grim line. _You want to stay with me,_ he finally says, if only to convince himself. _I love you, Violet. I want you to stay with me, always. Only you, and me. Together forever._

And when he kisses her, there's a sudden urgency behind the way she touches him. _It's like I can't feel anymore,_ she mumbles. _I can, but it doesn't work right. I just want to feel, Tate. Make me feel?_ When he pulls back to look at her, he knows exactly what she means, and goddamn it, he won't deny her. He'd never deny her.

They wonder upstairs to her bedroom, stealing kisses and touches too loud for words. He locks the door and she's suddenly stripping out of her clothes, nearly bare in a second. Her hair is still tangled from when they went swimming, down around her shoulders in a curtain of gold. He kisses her, pushes her back against the bed.

And she doesn't even both with foreplay, insistent as she undoes his belt and touches him through his jeans, pulls down the zipper and makes him groan when she wraps her hand around him, new and inexperienced. He grabs her hand, moves it to show her how and she gets a steady rythym, him panting against his mouth when he kisses her.

The clasp to her simple cotton bra is easy. He kisses her when she's bare, nipping and teasing her and when she mewls, her first sound of pleasure, he hooks his hands into her underwear and slides them down, fingers quick to enter her before she can fully snap her legs closed in embarrassment. She cries out, two fingers are too many, and he works her up for it, eventually gets in three and she's so fucking tight, and virgins get wet so easily and it's so fucking hot, and he wants to mark her as his because he's the only one that's ever touched her like this, the only one she's ever _let_ touch her like this, so he bites into her collarbone. It's enough to make her quiver beneath him.

_Tate_, she whispers, and he breaks away from her, looks at her. _Tate, please_. And when she reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulls it over his head, he doesn't object. Kisses her and kicks his jeans down to the edge of the bed. _Please,_ she says again.

_What do you want, Violet?_ he asks, because he has to hear her say it. _Tell me what you want._

She bites her lip, flushes, and then, she whimpers, _Fuck me?_ like he won't, and he moans, slips his fingers into her again and kisses her.

_God, you're so wet for me_, he mumbles. _Have you ever thought about me, when you touch yourself? I've watched you, you know?_ Her eyes snap open. _You're so quiet, Vi. I want you to be as loud as you want, when I make love to you._

And when he lines himself up with her, holds her gaze, he whispers, _Are you sure?_ and she nods, and he says, _I love you_, and he's so ecstatic that she'll be with him like this forever, he could cry.

He slips into her slowly, his cry of her name muffled by the veil of her hair as it twists around them in the infinite silence, such a broken place.

_Tate_, she begs, clinging to him in fear. _Oh Tate, __**please**__._ A tear single trails down her cheek, mars her skin red in the fading light of dawn.

He wonders if he's hurting her. He wonders if she's bleeding. And when he pulls out, just to see that stark red against himself, against her, against the sheets, he kisses her long and deep. She stutters something like a whimper as he kisses down the column of her throat, so tender where her pulse point should be. How can she bleed when she's dead?

He thinks about all of the times he's cut himself, the stark red lines against his wrist. And he thinks about the way her blood tasted when he found her slicing into her own skin as he lets his tongue trail over her chest, hipbone, down, down to the apex of her thighs.

When he looks up, it's only to find her blushing. _Tate_, she says, and the way she says it makes him suddenly insatiable. He tastes her long and slow, lapping away her innocence as she writhes beneath him, trying to squirm away from the pleasant ache but his hands wrap around the plush flesh of her thighs, hold her open, hold her to him.

_Shh_, he coos. _You taste so sweet, Violet._ The flush she gives him tinges from beginning to end of her body. He groans, licks her again and lets the copper-slick taste sit on his tongue. And when he moves back up to kiss her mouth, smear the blood around the corners of her lips, she simply opens to him, lets his tongue slip in just as his cock moves to push inside of her again.

She cries out, clings to him in bittersweet ecstasy and he smiles. He did that, he made her so helplessly pliant and accepting of him. She's _his_, if only for this moment and he intends to make it last forever.

At first he goes slowly, goes softly. But then she starts to adjust, starts to meet him thrust for thrust. _Faster_, she hisses, grinding herself against his pelvic bone. _Oh god, __**faster**__._ He's only happy to oblige, groaning as she lifts her hips for a different angle, sliding him in to the hilt, whimpering his name as he takes her pleasure for his own.

And then, when she's oh so close, when she's breathing so hard she sounds as if she'll die all over again, he lets his hand trail down between them, touch her right where the sensation will be the strongest. Her eyes slide closed, mouth open in a silent "O". But that isn't good enough for him. _Look at me, Vi,_ he says. _Look at me when I make you come._

Her eyes snap open, dark and fathomless, and when she shatters, he holds her gaze, claims her mouth and follows right after with a few erratic thrusts, spilling into her as she writhes beneath him, moaning and crying her release into his lips.

They lay there like that for a moment, him still twitching inside of her. He wants to say she's his, wants to demand she never leave him. But instead, it comes out as a question as he looks at her, the eyes of a little boy full of hope, _Promise to stay with me forever?_

And she answers him, _Yes_, as she brushes his hair away from his sweaty forehead and bites her bottom lip.

* * *

><p>And when she's standing there what seems like such a short time later, screaming at him, <em>Go away!<em> and all he can think to say is _You're all I want, you're all I have!_ and he finds himself in the basement, all alone, so entirely alone while she cries upstairs and her dead mother that he killed comforts her, he realizes he never even reminded her she promised. She promised him forever, and that's how long he'll wait for her, if that's what it takes.


	9. Flittering across floorboards

**A/N:** Drabble taking place after 1x12.

* * *

><p><em>time goes by <em>/ _watch you fall again_

Transit.

* * *

><p>She doesn't know when she let this happen, exactly. She promised herself it would <em>never<em> happen. She wouldn't forgive him. She couldn't.

She did.

Or maybe she didn't. The title of it doesn't seem to matter though, because here she is, staring at him lying prone and naked beside her on the floor. They'd had enough sense in their haze of "making up" to lay out a blanket against the dust of their bedroom floorboards. It was gentle and sweet, and he told her how much he'd missed her, _loves_ her as he moved inside of her, made her _feel_ as she'd begged him to do so long ago.

It's everything she has wanted for the past three years. When she told him _Go away_, she never meant it. She did, but she didn't. She couldn't. Not when he has eyes that can stare into her soul and a smile that rips her heart to shreds. Not when he was willing to "die with her" like Romeo and Juliet, such a silly simple notion, but she knows that even if he would have been alive, he would have meant every word.

He loves her.

He loves her more than anyone else in her pitiful excuse of a "life" ever has. And when he wakes, grasps his hand around the silver lines on her wrists, she doesn't stave him off. She could whisper _Go away_ and admit this was a mistake, to herself and everyone around her. But she's tired. Tired of missing him and hating him and hating everything and everyone.

She loves him.

It's helpless; it wasn't a choice. It's like breathing, something you can't live without, what he is to her. And yes, she gets the irony considering she's dead, but it's bullshit to say she doesn't love him more than it's healthy. He raped her mother. He _killed_ her mother and everyone else. But she forgave him.

She loves him.

_What are you thinking?_ he asks into the silence of the room, traces of dawn flittering across the floorboards.

She stares at the pale skin of his chest, where there should be wounds from bullets but aren't. _I love you,_ she mumbles. _I love you, Tate._

He doesn't smile as she expected him to. He lies there, staring at her, eyes turning red-rimmed. When he begins to cry, she doesn't say anything. She lets him curl into the bare skin of her neck, holding her, sobbing. _You told me to go away_, he whispers. _You said goodbye._

She wants to say she never meant it, but that would be bullshit too. She meant it, or at least she meant it _then_. Maybe she means it now. She doesn't know. The days have blurred together. Time has stopped. She told herself she would hate him forever. It's been forever, it has to have been. She can't hate him.

She loves him.

And he loves her.

He cradles her face in his hands, kisses her and sets his forehead against hers, looking into her soul and breaking her. He's broken her and she will never been repaired. He is the only thing holding her together in this world, or this death, or whatever it is. He has taken her freewill and choice in loving him. She will always love him, and she can never stop.

And she hates him for it.

_Go away, Tate, _she says, but it's a half-hearted attempt.

He sniffles, shakes his head against her and kisses her. _I love you, Violet. I love you. You're all I have. Don't do this. Not again._

And she hates him, and she loves him, and as they sit there, the sunlight illuminating their skin, or their corpses, or whatever they have become, she exhales against his mouth, her murmur of _I'm sorry_, the last thing he hears before she disappears, leaving him to the shadows and the floorboards, the darkness she abhors and the light he lost.


End file.
